


A Thin Veneer

by Atri



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Crime!Lizzy, Execution, Gen, Hints of Lizzington, Introspection, Prompt Fic, The whole baby situation with a twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atri/pseuds/Atri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because once you pull the trigger, you cannot go back.</p>
<p>Season 3 Lizzy. Hints of Lizzington. Choices.</p>
<p>Prompt: Liz embraces the Dark Side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Liz embraces the Dark Side.
> 
> Here's a short snippet I wrote after someone mentioned the prompt to me and I couldn't get it out of my head. Feel free to use the prompt too. It'd be interesting to read another story based on the premise. Liz on the Dark Side is so much more interesting than the FBI agent could ever be.

She had returned to them different — hair golden, blue eyes just that little bit colder and gait smoother — trying to recapture that which had been lost with the pull of the trigger; had perhaps never existed before at all.

It was a thin veneer of civility. Thin enough to shrink further and further the more time her former team spent with her, expecting the righteous, patriotic Elizabeth Keen; expecting a woman who had joined the FBI for all those higher values that were so touted all over the place — and finding something quite other instead.

She was no longer an FBI agent. An “asset” they called her now.

She snorted, pressing the silenced gun — a gun she should not have, in a place she should not be — a bit more firmly against the kneeling man’s head as he shifted at the sound.

“You won’t do it,” the man tried to convince her, to convince himself. His body was trembling.

It didn’t matter. Another Blacklister. Another case. She on the sidelines. Red in the thick of it, as always. Her former team fighting the good fight with the backing of a law that could be twisted by those who had money, those who held the strings.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she told him. It wouldn’t be. Her very first victim had been her father years ago. A prelude to the symphony that had so insistently wormed itself into her life since then, all scorching whiskey smoothness, smoking guns and shady characters. She had tried — tried to be a good law-abiding woman, even as the countless lessons of shady skills during her childhood had painted some parts of her in grey. The FBI with its rules and regulations had been her last attempt at normalcy, the music silenced for a while, until Red swept into her life in a blast of charm and elegance. The music had come back full force.

“You’re one of the good guys,” he argued. And perhaps that might have been true — once. Before Connolly. Before she pulled the trigger. Now…even if she had the chance to walk away, leaving Red behind to deal with the hydra alone, she wouldn’t want to.

“No,” she finally admitted, finger tightening, and felt something like relief at saying it out loud, finally consciously choosing a side, determining her path, “no, I’m really not.”

If her father, her birth had been the start of her journey, then Connolly had been when she was pushed to the edge. This…this was the leap.

“Of my own free will,” she whispered to herself and pulled the trigger. Red blood splattered on the dirty floor. The body fell forward, a puppet with its strings cut. Another head of the hydra cut off; many more remained.

Had Red’s beginning been similar oh so many years ago? It was something to ponder.

She pulled out the phone and called Mr. Kaplan, making arrangements. Red would no doubt hear of this. He wouldn’t be pleased. But this had to be done, rather sooner than later, as they both well knew. And that it was she who had the time, who was available right now, who could act? He’d have to live with it.

She walked away, for the first time in years feeling completely comfortable in her skin, her thoughts clear and crisp like the spring wind. Perhaps she never could have walked a different path, but it was her choice whether to embrace it or fight against it. Ressler might call it weakness, her choice, if he knew. But then again, he was no convict, no murderer, no daughter of a Russian spy. When all else fell to the side, there only remained love and loyalty and trust. She had felt this those first few days on the run; had finally recognized what was important.

Normalcy was overrated anyway.

Elizabeth Keen smiled. She was all-in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snippet. Can be taken as continuation of the previous one. Tones of Lizzington, but can be seen differently, if so chosen.
> 
> I thought about the whole baby thing and this was the result.

Pain speared through the darkness like a ray of blinding, agonizing light. The rhythm, the melody of it was too familiar by far.

“Oh, Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy…why couldn’t you just do as told for once in your life?”

That voice…

“Tom?” With effort, she forced her eyes open and met those of the man who had once upon a time been considered her former husband.

“It’s _Jacob_ , Lizzy,” he hissed back, the echoes of Tom Keen shattering in the face of what was beneath.

She remained silent, ignored as he shook his head in consternation, and took in her surroundings. Her hands were bound firmly, chained to the hospital bed. But this was no hospital. Through the milky plastic sheet walls that surrounded her she recognized the typical walls of a warehouse. The additional medical instruments around her and the fact that she was so pregnant that it looked like she had a watermelon in her stomach…

“Son of a bitch,” she accused coldly, eyes glaring, instinctively knowing what this meant. She wasn’t due for some weeks yet, had been so careful to protect the life growing inside her for months and now this.

“Now, now…don’t be like that! Doesn’t a father have the right to be there for the birth of his child?” His tone was mocking and the urge to twist his neck almost overwhelmed her. This…this was exactly why she hadn’t said yes when he asked her to marry him, to run away with him. Tom…Jacob…whatever his name was ran hot and cold, jumping from one extreme to the other. One moment he declared his eternal love for her; the next he put a bullet in someone’s head to “protect” her.

“You’re not his father.”

For a moment whatever clever retort he had was silenced, his eyes widening at the implications.

“You…you slept with _Reddington_?” Funny how that was his very first thought.

“And if I did? It’s not your business with whom I do or don’t sleep — whether it’s Reddington or someone else.” Tom wouldn’t have been the father in any case, no matter his participation or lack thereof in the act of conception. A father was more than a biological donor; her own life was example enough of that. Sam had been more her father than the man who had contributed his genes had been. Tom…Jacob, with his volatile emotions, would not have been another Sam.

She was a profiler. She recognized obsession when she saw it.

If she couldn’t bring herself to trust a man who had put a weapon to her head, fully prepared to kill her, then — whatever rest of feelings she might have for him and however good or bad the sex might have been — she never would have been able to trust him with her son.

“Well, I guess that works just as well, Liz.” He was suddenly too damn calm; she shifted nervously. What she wouldn’t give for a gun — or for Red sauntering through the door, all charm and lethal menace. “Reddington’s genes might be even more desirable.”

“…what do you mean?”

He laughed and the words began to spill out of him like filthy water, growing ever more vicious. Perhaps he wanted to hurt her for her refusal, but his revelations tasted like truth, bitter and cold.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Liz? Subproject 7, Liz. You’re the daughter of Katerina Rostova and your father…well…let’s just say that you’re from a nice long line of murderers and assassins. Truth hurts, doesn’t it? You’re no better than I am — worse, really! How many poor men have you killed since you’ve come back, since you’ve started working with Reddington in earnest? What, no reply?”

“Do you have a point, Tom?” She wasn’t one of the good guys, hadn’t been in a while. That wasn’t new.

“Oh, I will tell you exactly what will happen. You see, dearest Liz, you’re a broodmare.” He smirked at her. Damn him for noticing her disquiet. Ice slithered inside her veins, her fingers frozen on the white bedsheets. “Yes, a broodmare in a long line of broodmares. During the Cold War — and even before that, really — loads of shit went down. All kinds of projects for super soldiers, super spies were conceived and financed. Your fuck buddy Red? Also a prime specimen on the American side. And when they pushed him to the edge…oh boy, what fireworks! Imagine what Red's and your genes will do with this one!” He patted her stomach, head snapping back as she surged forward in rage, teeth bared, feral.

Taking her son? Over her dead body. Bastard.

“Ah…there it is, Liz! There is the killer!” One of his fingers trailed down the side of her face.

“And what’s your job in all this, _Tom_? Kidnapping babies? Is that all you’re capable of now? All you’re good for?” she goaded, suddenly reckless in her vulnerability.

“If you hadn’t been so fucking difficult, we’d have a nice quiet home somewhere in Nebraska and you would have seen your son grow up. How many times have I tried to convince you to live the nice, American domestic fantasy? But, no! No, you just fucking had to continue wanting to be a player, to follow Reddington around once he realized that his protective cocoon around you was breached. Ding-dong, Liz, wake up! You’re a pawn and your father isn’t at all happy with you shooting him all those years ago. Reddington stole you from him — he won’t steal his grandson too.”

There was movement to the side. Tom turned his head.

“Ah, the doctors are here. Well, Liz, this is goodbye then. I tried to give you my love, but you spat it back out. This is your own doing.”

The doctors surrounded her and terror gripped her as she began to struggle wildly.

“Put her under,” she heard.

No. No! But her eyes were closing, closing no matter how hard she tried to keep them open. Her baby…her son…no…

She woke up feeling empty, bereft. Gentle hands were removing the restraints and she blinked her eyes open.

Speaking was hard.

“Red…?” she croaked. His suit was splattered with blood, eyes dark. And she knew. They had taken him. Red had arrived too late. Denial surged forward on a sob and then she was gathered in his arms. He was stroking her hair, soothing her in whatever way he could.

“We’ll get him back, Lizzy. We’ll get him back.” As she cried in his arms, powerless and hollow, she grasped that one lifeline: they would get him back — and those who had taken him would pay.

She would make sure of it.


End file.
